


Cooking With Fire

by Rockinmuffin



Series: When You Play With Fire [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Date, Bad Puns, Comedy, F/M, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Post Pacifist Ending, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sans and Papyrus are professional cockblocks, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6465226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/pseuds/Rockinmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you can't take the heat, <strike>stay out of the kitchen </strike>don't ask a fire monster over for a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> There are probably a bazillion mistakes and this is twice as long as it should be with unnecessary details but I'm so done looking at this.
> 
> Have fun dating fire.

Once again you catch yourself staring at Grillby’s jacket where it hangs casually from a hook in your entry way. This has been its home the past couple of days and every time you pass by it you can smell the faint aroma of a campfire on a winter’s night mixed with men’s cologne and just a hint of burger grease and does smelling his jacket make you a creeper? Yeah, probably.

So, really, the only way to rectify this situation is to have the owner of that jacket come pick it up ASAP. And if said owner of the jacket decides that he’d be inclined to hang around for a bit and perhaps turn this evening into a second date, well, you suppose you owe it to him for holding onto his coat for so long.

You pull your phone out from your pants pocket and bite your bottom lip. You look at Grillby’s name in your contact list, finger hovering over the CALL button. You hesitate. You’re not really sure you can handle a conversation right now, especially when he’s so quiet and it’s all up to you to fill the silence, but a text couldn’t hurt. With a text, you can plan out what you want to say beforehand. With a text, there’s less of a chance that you’ll sound like an idiot.

Determined, you press your finger to the MESSAGE button and begin typing away.

**So, when you dropped me off the other night, you left your coat.**

Cool and casual. You check over the message one more time before hitting the send button. Then you read over it once again and wonder if you’re being a little too subtle. You bring your thumbs back down to the keyboard and type out another short message.

**If you’d like, you could come over tonight to get it. Say, 6 o’clock?**

There you go; nice and direct. Still casual, still cool, but this time you give him a hint of what you want. Very classy.

**And if you wanted to then you could also stay over for dinner maybe?**

And, okay, the last message isn’t quite as cool but people like it when you tell them what you want instead of playing games, right? Right. You stuff your phone back into your pocket and then immediately pull it out two seconds later to type another message.

**No pressure or anything! Just, the invitation’s there if you want it.**

You toss your phone across the room to land on your couch. Hopefully the distance will be enough to prevent you from sending any other messages to embarrass yourself with any further.

Phone on the couch and offer on the table, you distract yourself with adult things such as balancing your budget and skipping through all the articles in your newspaper to go straight to the Sudoku puzzle.

You’re about halfway through your puzzle when you hear the frenzied rumble of your phone as it vibrates against the couch cushions.

You’re not proud of how fast you dash across the room to get it but you take some consolation in the fact that at least there’s no one around to witness your sad act of desperation.

Phone in hand, you take a deep breath and open the message.

**see you then**

It’s so simple and concise but it’s so typically _Grillby_ that you still feel your cheeks and stomach fill with warmth as your eyes scan over the words again and again.

Grillby’s coming over tonight.

You mull over that thought, letting all the nervous anticipation and excitement that the idea invokes to sink in as you twirl around your living room in a lightheaded daze. You nearly trip and break your leg over a pile of old newspapers and—just like that—you’re struck with an overwhelming sense of dread.

Grillby’s coming over tonight and your house is a complete and utter _pigsty_.

“CRAP!”

You scurry about your living room, picking up clutter from your floor and coffee table. There’s junk everywhere and it’s been over a week since you last cleaned the floors or dusted off the furniture. You think of all the things you have to do and wonder if you can skip cleaning the bathroom. It’s not like Grillby would ever have to _use_ it…

No. Even if Grillby doesn’t have to use the toilet, you can’t risk him seeing it and thinking you’re one of those people who wallows around in their own filth, even if it’s actually kind of one hundred percent true.

You’re jolted out of your thoughts by the sound of a key turning in your lock.

There are only two keys to your apartment that remain in existence. The first is currently lying across your kitchen counter among the rest of the clutter. The second is in the gloved, skeletal hands of your best friend turned professional cock blocker.

 _No_ , you think desperately. _Please, not now_.

The door barges open in spite of your silent protest and in pops Papyrus, a large toothy grin spread out across his sharp features and a cardboard box filled to the brim in his arms.

“I hope you’re ready for maximum levels of fun, my friend, because that is exactly what I have planned for us this evening!”

He slams the cardboard box on top of your kitchen counter witch such exuberance that a few of the items—a wooden spoon, a sexy robot action figure, a feather duster, and a ninety-nine cent bag of plastic googly eyes—fly into the air and hit the ground with varying degrees of violence.

“Papyrus, you can’t stay over tonight.”

Papyrus tilts his head to the side. “Of course I can! We’re both responsible adults, after all. Besides, Sans already gave me permission and promised he’d read me my bedtime story over the phone.” The idea that his presence tonight might be _unwanted_ hasn’t even crossed his mind, bless his soul.

“And if it was any other day, I’d be thrilled by the prospect, but—”

“And look!” He throws his arms in the air, nearly backhanding you across the chin in his enthusiasm. “You’re cleaning up most of your gross mess in celebration of my visit! Even though I didn’t tell you I was coming over. Could this mean…? GASP!” he says aloud, not actually gasping. “Were we predestined to have a super cool hangout today?!”

“Papyrus!” You pause a moment to take a breath. You’re a little exasperated and you have to make a conscious effort to keep from raising your voice. “Now is _really_ not a good time for me. Grillby is coming over tonight and I—”

“Grillby? Excellent! The more the merrier, I always say! Or, I _would_ always say it if I had more opportunities for that to be an appropriate thing to say.” He removes a single glove so that he can scrape his bony phalanges against his mandible. “Note to self: say, _The more the merrier_ more often.”

You run your fingers through your hair and tug at your scalp just to keep your fingers from circling around your friend’s boney neck. Partly because violence is never the answer and Papyrus is your precious friend whom you would never want to harm but mostly because you know it would be a waste of time and energy since Papyrus has neither a throat nor lungs.

“Papyrus,” you begin, fingers twitching at your sides. “You know you’re my best friend and that I love you more than life itself, but I was kind of hoping that Grillby and I could spend the evening together alone. Just the two of us. You know,” you pause to turn your head, suddenly feeling bashful. “Like a _date_.”

“Oh!” His expression shifts to one of sly understanding. “I think I see what you’re getting at. So you want to be alone with Grillby to do what people do when they’re on dates?”

You nod your head, relieved.

“Yes, I suppose it is difficult to engage in romantic activities such as holding hands and sensually rubbing a little heart on your date’s biceps with a friend hanging around to witness such private, intimate moments.”

“Wait, what? Papyrus, What kind of dates have you been on?”

He ignores your question as he closes his eyes, expression uncharacteristically stern. “Don’t worry, human. Despite not having any ears, I understand what you are saying loud and clear. You don’t need your friend Papyrus on your special date.”

“Papyrus…” You’re not exactly sure _how_ the skeleton has managed to actually make you feel guilty for wanting to be on a date without having him hanging around as a third wheel but, as he does all things, he succeeds at it with flying colors.

“Indeed,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “What you need is your relationship coach and wingman, The Great Papyrus!”

Instantly, the guilt is gone, replaced with a sense of disbelief. Your only response is a flat, “What,” which you repeat when Papyrus pulls out a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses from his box of goodies and attempts to balance them on his face despite having neither a nose nor ears.

“Fear not, human! For I, The Great Papyrus, am not only future Captain of the Royal Guard and the world’s greatest spaghetore known to both man and monsterkind; I also happen to be an expert on dating! With the help of my extensive knowledge and natural charisma, you and Grillby will be holding hands and sloppily pressing your mouths together in no time!”

He finishes the statement with a dramatic pose, his index finger pointed toward the ceiling and one leg raised high enough that he can rest the sole of his boot on your kitchen counter. Despite the position looking painful, he’s able to maintain it the whole ten seconds you stare blankly at him in silence.

From some dark corner of your unwanted clutter, a cricket chirps. Gross. How long has that thing been living in your house?

“Papyrus,” you begin gently, not wanting to insult him. “Exactly how many dates have you been on?”

“One! With a human child!” _Oh my God_ … “But I have lots of experience helping _other people_ date. I’ve given Undyne lots of great romantic advice over the years and she and Alphys are so in love with each other it’s nauseating! Also, just last week I set up San’s pet rock with your left snow boot!”

Your eyes narrow accusingly. “So _you’re_ the one who keeps putting rocks in my shoes!” And you’d been so sure it was another one of Sans’ pranks, too. You owe him an apology.

“Indeed!” He places his hands on his hips, looking extremely proud of himself. The sunglasses slide off his face and fall to the floor with a clatter but he is unperturbed. “Another successful match made, all thanks to The Great Papyrus!”

You massage your temple. You _really_ don’t have time to deal with this right now.

“Look, Papyrus, I can’t stand here arguing with you all night. I invited Grillby over for dinner and I haven’t even _started_ cooking.”

“Dinner?” Papyrus looks at you with sparkles in his eye sockets and you instantly realize your mistake.

 _Oh no_.

“The solution is simple, my friend. I, Grandmaster Chef Papyrus, shall cook the most delicious, most romantic, and most mood-setting meal you have ever had the great fortune of sampling. It will be so perfect and date-worthy that you and Grillby will be at constant war with your desire to smooch each other and your desire to stuff more of my amazing culinary masterpiece straight down your throat holes! Also, it will give you more time to do whatever it is that people do when they get ready for dates!”

You know this is a terrible idea with every fiber of your being. You’re no master chef yourself but at least what you cook is typically _edible_. Heck, you can make a pretty mean grilled cheese sandwich when the mood strikes you. Papyrus, on the other hand, is not the worst cook whose food you’ve had the misfortune of tasting but he still has to occasionally be reminded that glitter is not actually a spice.

And yet you don’t actually have anything better in mind.

You glance down at your phone to check the time. You still have to iron out your clothes if you want to wear something nice and your living room floor is in need of a good vacuuming. With less than an hour before Grillby is supposed to arrive, there’s absolutely no feasible way you can accomplish all of this on your own _and_ prepare a romantic dinner for two.

Papyrus continues to stare at you expectantly.

You run your hand down your face, exhale slowly, and in a voice so quiet you have to strain your own ears in order to hear, you relent with a defeated, “Okay.”

He beams. “Excellent! I promise you won’t regret it!”

 _Too late_ , you think.

“Now, out! There’s much to be done and I can’t create a delicious world class meal with you lollygagging about!” He grabs your shoulders, urging you out of the kitchen and towards your living room. “Prepare for your date, my human friend, and leave the cooking to me!”

You obey, if only because you don’t really have any choice in the matter. For someone with literally no muscles, Papyrus is surprisingly strong. He’s also right; there’s a lot to do before you’ll be ready and time is running out fast. With a sigh, you pull your vacuum out of the hallway closet and set to work.

You hear pots and pans clanking and what might be a small explosion over the roar of the vacuum. You try not to worry about the state of your kitchen—buildings usually only tend to burn to the ground when Undyne is involved—and focus on the task at hand.

With the floor cleared of crumbs, all the shelves at and below eye-level lightly dusted, and your bathroom looking passable, you make your way to your bedroom closet to pick an appropriate outfit for this evening. Nothing too formal, but something nicer than what you usually wear. Knowing Grillby, he’ll be dressed to impress and the last thing you want to do is look like a bum when this date was your idea in the first place.

Outfit picked, you drape it across your ironing board to prepare it for a thorough de-wrinkling. While you wait for the iron to heat, you pick up dirty clothes from your floor and toss them in the hamper. When you run out of room in the hamper, you throw the remainder of clothing in the closet and shut the door tight because Grillby can’t know that you’re the kind of slob that leaves dirty clothes on the floor.

Not that you plan on Grillby seeing your room tonight or anything like that but, hey, it doesn’t hurt. Who knows where the night will take the two of you? And if it ends up taking the two of you into your bedroom then it’s better to be safe than sorry.

…Speaking of being safe, what kind of protection do you need when your partner is literally made of fire? Oven mitts? A fire-proof bodysuit?

That line of thought earns you a nasty burn on your palm as you carelessly brush your hand against the hot end of the iron. You suppose that’s what you get for thinking of playing with fire.

Then the pain hits you and you suck in a deep breath through your teeth. The only thing that keeps you from shouting out the most obscene curse words you know at the top of your lungs is the knowledge that Papyrus is in your house and is too much of a precious cinnamon roll for you to corrupt with the foul words that want to rain out of your mouth.

You race towards the bathroom, turn on the faucet, and let out a sigh of relief as the cold water runs over the burn. You keep it there for at least a good twenty seconds before you pull your hand out from under the faucet to take a good look at it. The skin is irritated and angry-looking and it still stings a little bit but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You apply some ointment then set back to ironing your outfit.

Hand soothed and clothes smoothed, you throw on your outfit as you work on some last minute self-maintenance to help make yourself look like a less-disgusting human being.

You’re simultaneously combing your hair and gargling just a little too much mouthwash when there’s a knock on your door. You half swallow, half gag, on the liquid in your mouth before spitting the remainder into your bathroom sink.

“Just a minute!” you shout before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You take a quick peek in the mirror to make sure your face isn’t a mess then dash out of your bathroom.

In your rush to answer the door, you stub your toe on the bathroom doorjamb and bump your knee against the coffee table. You grab your injured knee and hop towards your entryway, muttering PG curses as you clumsily head towards the door.

Your effort and injury is all for naught because Papyrus beats you to it. When he reaches the door he swings it open with enough force that the doorknob dents the wall at impact.

If Grillby is at all surprised about the skeleton’s presence in your home, he does a good job of hiding it. The man has a hell of a poker face.

As expected, Grillby looks effortlessly handsome. He’s forgone his regular button-up dress shirt and bowtie in favor of a slightly more casual-looking button-up dress shirt and an argyle print sweater vest that _should_ make him look dorky but instead he looks endearing and attractive.

“Hello, Grillby, and welcome to scenic The Human’s House!” Papyrus waves his arms in a wide flourish, taking a step back and holding the door open so that Grillby can enter.

You wave sheepishly when Grillby catches sight of you and you think the flames of his head flare just a little bit brighter.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Papyrus places his hand on the small of Grillby’s back, gently ushering him further inside. “Feel free to snoop around their items! I’ve prepared a witty comment or entertaining anecdote for each item in the room that you might interact with!”

You blink. “Papyrus, what the _hell_?”

Grillby looks at Papyrus expectantly as he picks up a dust rag you forgot to put away during your frantic cleaning spree.

“…Except for that. But fret not! The Great Papyrus is also masterly skilled in the art of improvisation! AHEM!” He clears his throat despite not actually having a throat to clear. “The human sure does clean up nicely, don’t they? Also, they don’t look too bad when they’re all dressed up!”

You instantly feel your face heat up in embarrassment. Instead of commenting on it, Grillby changes the subject by pointing to where his coat is hanging at your entranceway.

“Ah, yes! Don’t worry, friends. The Great Papyrus has prepared something to say about the coat. After all, I’d hate to leave you… _hanging_.”

The both of you stare at him blankly.

“What?” he huffs, hands on his hips. “They can’t _all_ be winners.”

Grillby turns back to you. “You _do_ look nice,” he tells you in a soft voice.

Your cheeks warm again though, this time, it’s bearable. “Thanks,” you smile. “You too.”

Papyrus waits for Grillby to pick out another item but, thankfully, Grillby doesn’t really seem to be the snooping type. Instead, he just stands patiently with his hands clasped behind his back.

When Papyrus realizes Grillby isn’t going to root through your junk any further, he clears his imaginary throat. “Aw, yes, I suppose you didn’t come here to listen to _my_ charming and insightful commentary. You came here to chat up the human.” He makes a facial gesture reminiscent of an eyebrow wiggle despite not having eyebrows.

Papyrus smooshes the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder then proceeds to gently push the two of you further into your home.

You’re surprised to find that, in the relatively short time it took for you to get dressed, your kitchen table has been moved into the center of your previously unfurnished and unused dining room. You’re even more surprised to find that it actually has the sort of romantic setup one might see in movies. In the center of the table is a bronze-plated candelabrum—that you know isn’t yours—with several lit long-wicked candles. The tablecloth is also fancy, a deep burgundy color, and distinctly not yours.

Just how many strangely date-appropriate props did he bring over?

You make a move to seat yourself at the table when you’re distracted by what sounds like a sheet of metal being thrown into a wood chipper.

“PSSSST!”

Turns out, the sound is actually Papyrus attempting to whisper. Huh.

“Psst! Pro-pyrus Dating Tip! If you want to impress your date, be sure to pull out their chair for them to sit. Not only does it show you are attentive to their sitting needs, but you also get to show off your muscles and flex your biceps as you seductively maneuver furniture.”

Papyrus eyes you expectantly. You and Grillby exchange a look before shrugging. You move to the other side of the table and pull out the chair for him. He sits and, gently, you push his chair closer to the table. Papyrus gives you a thumbs-up as you move back to your own seat.

“And now, The Great Papyrus shall set the mood!”

Papyrus flips off the light switch. In a normal situation, the lights of the candle would be just the right amount of illumination for a romantic setting. Because you’re dating a man made of fire, it just makes you strain your eyes as they attempt to adjust to the extreme brightness of his form.

It doesn’t deter Papyrus one bit. At least, you don’t _think_ it does. It’s kind of hard to tell when you’re forced to squint your eyes. You can hear his boots clunk against your floor as he makes his way back to the kitchen, leaving you and Grillby alone.

“Blinded by love?” Sans asks suddenly from somewhere at your right. The fact that neither you nor Grillby jolt in your seats is a testament to the fact that the two of you are much too used to these skeletons’ shenanigans.

When the hell did he even get here, anyway?

Sans takes your confused squinting as a sign to continue. “Good thing you don’t need your eyesight to enjoy some quality music.”

You continue to squint confusedly as Sans pulls out something from his pocket and brings it up to his lipless mouth. You have no idea what it is but Grillby must have an inkling because he buries his face in his hands with a double face-palm.

Sans then proceeds to perform a kazoo cover of what you think might be Bella Notte.

If he’s actually trying to bring you and Grillby closer together then, in a weird way, you suppose it’s working because you’ve never felt more in synch with Grillby than you do now as you cover your face with your hands and question your poor choice in friends.

…Though you’re ninety-nine percent sure he’s just trying to be a nuisance.

Sans is about halfway through a riveting kazoo rendition of My Heart Will Go On when Papyrus pops in around the corner with a basket full of breadsticks. He sets the basket down at the center of your table—they look and smell burnt—before turning to Sans with his hands on his hips.

“Sans! Stop plaguing their date with incidental music!” He pauses to scratch his jaw. “Or, at the very least, play something from my list of carefully-selected romance-inducing jams.”

“Sorry, bro, I couldn’t help myself.” Sans shrugs. “A man’s gotta’ kazoo what a man’s gotta’ kazoo.”

Papyrus stomps his foot in place. “I’ve worked very hard to set the perfect mood for love and merry-making and I can’t have you in here mucking it all up with your strangely whimsical plastic instruments and your wearisome wordplay! Now, _please_ , try to keep your boondoggling to a bare minimum as I finish preparing their meal.”

“Sure thing, bro. I’m all _about_ doing the bare minimum.”

Papyrus groans but stomps back to the kitchen without further complaint.

Your eyes have finally begun to adjust to your surroundings and you take a moment to admire Sans’ outfit. It seems even this lazy pile of bones can’t resist dressing up for the occasion. Truth be told, you’re being generous by using the term _dressing up_. Sans is just wearing a ratty old tuxedo T-shirt but you appreciate the minimal effort it must have taken him to change out of his sweat-stained blue sweatshirt.

You make a show of giving him a quick onceover. “Looking good, Sans. That mustard stain on your sleeve really brings out your no-eyes.”

“Thanks, for the _condiment_ , kid. I’m really _relishing_ in your praise. Though, you probably shouldn’t flirt with me right in front of your date. He might get… _jelly_.”

Despite not having any eyes, the flames in Grillby’s face flicker in a way that gives you the distinct impression that he would be rolling them.

“So,” you drawl, fingers tapping against the tabletop as you eye the little plastic instrument in his hand with mild disdain. “A kazoo?”

“Yeah. Papyrus wants everything to be perfect for your hot date tonight so, to keep me out of treble, he forbid me from playing any instruments that I could make a bone-related pun with. That means no trom _bones_ , no xylo _bones_ , and no saxo _bones_.” Sans releases an overdramatic sigh. “He even confiscated my _marrow_ cas.”

“And, out of all the remaining instruments that exist, you picked a kazoo?”

He shrugs. “It was either going to be this or a vuvuzela.”

You and Grillby share a look before you turn back to Sans.

“…Good choice,” Grillby says with a thumbs up.

“Yeah. Ditto.”

“Thanks,” Sans winks. “I thought so ka _too_. But enough about me. This night is supposed to be about the two of you. So just sit back, bask in the warmth of each other’s company, and try to resist the urge to jump each other’s bones as I play the sweet dulcet tones of some Papyrus-approved love jams.”

Before you can say anything, the kazoo returns to his mouth and Sans begins belting out a nasally-sounding rendition of Disney Mulan’s A Girl Worth Fighting For.

Although the tones aren’t quite as sweet or dulcet as advertised, you decide to take Sans’ advice. You invited Grillby over with the intent to date him, after all, and you refuse to let this evening go to waste despite your uninvited house guests. You’re filled with determination to date the pants off Grillby. Not literally, though. ~~Unless that’s what he wants.~~

“So, Grillby,” you begin, speaking just a little too loud for an inside voice in order to be heard over Sans’ hardcore kazoo-playing. “The weather sure has been nice, huh?”

You barely restrain yourself from grabbing the salad fork in front of you and stabbing yourself in the thigh. The weather? _Really_?

“A little humid for my tastes,” he answers.

“Uh, yeah.” You feel a bead of sweat sliding down the back of your neck. “That’s what I meant to say. So… how about that big game last night? Sure were a lot of goals in ones and whatnot.” _Holy crap you are the worst at conversation._

Grillby fidgets in his seat. “I don’t really follow sports.”

“Oh. Cool. Me neither.”

You promptly grab a breadstick from the center of the table and stuff it in your mouth-hole before anything else stupid can spill out. As you sink down into your chair, Sans inches closer so he can blast the beginning chords of what _might be_ a kazoo cover of Miss New Booty directly into your ear.

“I highly doubt _this song_ was approved by Papyrus,” you say around a mouthful of burnt bread.

Your answer comes in the form of a kazoo blast of sound so forceful that a fleck of saliva hits your cheek.

You’re wiping your face with your napkin when Papyrus bursts out of the kitchen wearing a chef’s hat and an impressive handlebar mustache placed beneath his nasal cavity. He’s holding a covered food tray high over his head with all the excitement and pride of a champion fighter holding a world title belt. Fitting, seeing as his cooking has successfully knocked out a grown man in the past.

“I hope you’re prepared to have your taste buds be tantalized!” Papyrus shouts. The more his jaw moves, the farther his mustache slips down his face until it’s barely dangling from one side. “Because by the time you finish your meal, you’ll be ruined for anyone else’s cooking!”

The tray is unceremoniously dropped onto the center of the table and papyrus removes the cover to reveal—surprise—a single plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

“Not only is spaghetti the most delicious of all foods; it’s also the most romantic!”

You stare at the dish expectantly, waiting for Papyrus to either produce another out of thin air or to at least place another set of plates and a serving spoon. All Papyrus does is stare back at you eagerly.

“Um, Papyrus, not to complain or anything, but I think you’re missing a plate.”

He places his hands on his hips and laughs triumphantly, the force of it enough to send the fake mustache he was sporting gently fluttering down to the ground. “Human, what you might think was a rare blunder was actually a very intentional and well-calculated move on my part.”

The tall skeleton poses dramatically, arm swinging out in front of him and index finger extended. Being accustomed to Papyrus’ wild gesticulations, you scoot back in your chair just in time to narrowly avoid his ulna slamming into the side of your skull.

“You see,” Papyrus continues. “By causing the two of you to share the same plate of spaghetti, I have greatly increased your chances of smashing your lips together in a fit of hungry passion! You’ll be slurping up my spectacular spaghetti so spastically that you won’t even know what’s happened until your lips are touching sweetly in the sauciest of embraces! Do you understand what this means?”

You and Grillby exchange a look. You think you might be beginning to understand Grillby’s facial expressions because he looks just as overwhelmed and confused as you are.

Papyrus doesn’t wait long enough for you to answer. “Now you’ll have no choice but to canoodle with the noodles! The two of you have once again been thoroughly _japed_ by The Great Papyrus!”

“Or they could just not eat anything,” Sans suggests.

“As if that’s even an option! No one can resist pasta prepared by Papyrus! Nyeh heh heh!”

“Yeah, bro, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am!” Papyrus answers proudly.

Sans nudges Papyrus’ side with his elbow. “Resisting your cooking is _in pasta bowl_.”

Papyrus narrows his eye sockets.

Meanwhile, Grillby calmly pulls the dish closer to him. You watch silently as he takes his knife and fork and begins cutting all the noodles into bite-size pieces. When finished, he slides the plate back to the center of the table so that it’s within your reach.

You grab your own fork and use it to lift up a bite-sized strand of pasta to your face for closer inspection. Looks like there won’t be any spaghetti-slurping smooches this evening.

Whether or not this revelation upsets you, any disappointment you might feel is negligible in comparison to the heart-breaking, _soul-aching_ , near-palpable feeling of utmost despair that radiates thickly off of Papyrus’ form.

“I didn’t anticipate this outcome! How could I, The Great Papyrus, not have foreseen this possibility?” He throws his forearm back over his forehead dramatically. “I’ve been thoroughly out-japed! Foiled! Bamboozled!”

But, much like a fart released underwater, nothing keeps Papyrus down for long. The clouds of despair hanging over him disperse and disappear into nothingness as the skeleton’s frown transforms into a sly-looking smile.

“But of course you were able to solve my puzzle. After all, it was your clever wit and puzzle-solving abilities that won the heart of my human friend in the first place! And just about the only thing that makes you deserving of their affections!”

“Papyrus!”

The tall skeleton ignores your reprimanding tone. Instead, he gives his full attention to your date. “Grillby, truly you are the most worthy of adversaries.”

Grillby is unphased, taking Papyrus’ words as the genuine compliment they were meant to be instead of the condescending barb they would be coming out of anyone else’s mouth. But that unflappable expression of his falters for the briefest of moments when his attention drifts down to the meal set out in front of you.

In all honesty, it looks more appetizing than some of Papyrus’ previous attempts at fixing spaghetti. You don’t see even a hint of glitter! Though, you think you spy a plastic googly eye hidden under one of the meatballs.

You grab your fork and scoop up a bite’s worth of spaghetti. You’re about to bring it to your mouth when you’re interrupted by another one of Papyrus’ whisper-shouts.

“Pro-pyrus Dating Tip Part Two! Be sure to feed your date off your own fork. By doing so, you’re showing them that you’re willing to provide for them and sacrifice filling your own stomach for the sake of theirs. Also, it looks super cute and makes for a good couple photo op!”

You stare back at Papyrus with a bland expression. “I’m not feeding Grillby off my fork.”

“Why not?!”

“Yeah,” Sans, who had previously been content to remain in the background, jumps at the chance to further embarrass you. “Why not?”

You feel your cheeks burn with heat. “Because it’s creepy and weird and this is only our second date.”

Papyrus pouts. “No it’s not! It’s adorable and cute.”

“Yeah, it’s adorable and cute.”

“Is there an echo in here?” You scowl at Sans before looking deeply into Papyrus’ eye sockets. “And, _no_ , it really isn’t.”

“Well, I think it is so it must be!”

“I’m not having this argument with you,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You look to Grillby for assistance. “Please tell Papyrus how creepy it would be if I held my fork up to your face right now.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh.” Your cheeks flush with warmth. “Well then.”

Papyrus watches expectantly as you reach over and raise your fork to Grillby in the vicinity of where a mouth might be located on an average person’s face. The fork presses just an inch closer and the spaghetti disappears into the fiery abyss.

For just a split second, the flames of Grillby’s head turn green. A slight gulping sound is heard and he returns back to his original color though you think he might be burning just a little dimmer than before.

Oh God, you poisoned you date.

Grillby stands from the table, pushing his chair back with the sharp squeak of wood scraping against tile. “Pardon me,” he offers with a polite nod before making a b-line for your bathroom.

You’re really glad you decided to clean the bathroom after all.

“Wowie! He took one bite and had to go straight to the bathroom!” Papyrus crosses his arms over his chest. “He probably needed a moment alone to wrap his mind around the flavorful experience he just had.”

You nod your head in agreement. You have neither the heart nor energy to tell him otherwise. There are too many distracting thoughts running through your mind. Such as, if Grillby dies from the poisoned spaghetti you fed him, would that make you a murderer or an _accessory_ to murder?

You‘re pondering this when the monster in question exits the bathroom looking as calm and composed as ever.

“Ah, Grillby, there you are! I hope you enjoyed your stay in the human’s bathroom!”

He ignores the skeleton and offers you a brief nod of acknowledgment and a determined expression before he walks straight past Papyrus and towards the kitchen.

“Hey!” Papyrus shouts. “Only the chef is allowed back there!”

Again, Grillby pays him no mind, walking straight into the kitchen like a man on a mission. Papyrus chases after him. You and Sans exchange a look before the two of you cautiously follow behind. 

Grillby heads straight for the pantry over your stove. He opens it up and peruses its contents then begins to gather several spices, some of which you don’t even know the names of despite them sitting in your spice rack.

Considering Grillby has never set foot in your home before today, he does an admirable job of navigating through your kitchen. He moves from drawer to pantry to fridge to other drawer, carefully selecting every utensil and ingredient he deems necessary.

You and Papyrus can do nothing but watch in open-mouthed awe as he flutters about the kitchen. Sans, on the other hand, helps himself to the half-used bottle of ketchup in your fridge door. You pay him little mind. You can’t take your eyes off Grillby.

There’s a glow about him that has nothing to do with the fact that he is his own source of light. Grillby is clearly in his element and witnessing it is something magical to behold; it’s like watching an endangered animal in its natural habitat. Or seeing Mettaton in booty shorts for the first time.

Ingredients gathered, he chops and dices vegetables in a matter of seconds, tossing them in a skillet to brown before dumping them into a larger cooking pot and adding the rest of the ingredients. With a flick of his wrist he brings the sauce to a rolling boil.

You raise an eyebrow. It’s only been a couple minutes; five minutes, tops. There’s no way the sauce should be finished cooking already. Like, you know the guy is a decent cook, but how did he manage to cook something that should take hours in no time flat?

Grillby must see the question in your expression because the flames near where a mouth should be flicker in a way that you can only describe as mischievous. “Magic,” he answers like it’s the only explanation you need.

Grillby carefully mixes in some spices, measuring them by eye then stirring them in. Satisfied, he dips a ladle into the sauce pot and offers it to Papyrus.

Papyrus eyes it critically. “Hmm, are you sure this is right, Grillby? Your sauce has a nice color and a good body to it but there’s a distinct lack of googly eyes.”

The flames behind Grillby’s glasses flicker in what you think might be the fire equivalent of an eye roll. Still, he offers the ladle and, hesitantly, Papyrus accepts it.

The moment the ladle touches Papyrus’ mouth, his eye sockets light up. He makes a loud slurping noise as he sucks the sauce up despite his lack of lips and a tongue. When he looks up from the ladle there are sparkles in his eye sockets and pasta sauce smeared all over his chin.

“Grillby! This is amazing!” he shouts, though for Papyrus it’s just his regular speaking volume. “It appears that I’ve underestimated you. It seems that your culinary prowess could rival that of my own. Perhaps even Undyne’s!”

Grillby’s response is a solemn nod of his head.

“But, wait,” Papyrus taps his jaw in deep thought. “If you can cook, why are you always serving such greasy swill at your bar?”

Grillby graciously ignores the comment, simply allowing the sauce to simmer on the stovetop as he grabs another pot from your cabinet and fills it with water. It’s placed on the stove next to the sauce pot and another flick of Grillby’s wrist brings the water to a boil. Grillby hands over a box of raw pasta noodles to Papyrus and guides the skeleton towards the stovetop with a hand on his upper back.

Together, they cook the noodles and keep a careful eye on the simmering sauce. You smile fondly as Grillby directs Papyrus, gently correcting the skeleton’s movements when he tries to stir the sauce with too much force. Papyrus is nearly bursting with enthusiasm while every inch of Grillby radiates with patience and warmth. There’s something charmingly domestic about the scene that makes your heart flutter in your chest and your cheeks flush with heat.

The realization that you’re actually blushing sobers you up real quick. You must be getting old if _this_ is the sort of thing that gets your motor running.

You turn your head from the scene to collect yourself and almost scream when you find yourself face-to-face with Sans.

“So,” he says with his trademark infuriating grin spread wide across his face. “If you and Grillby are dating, does that make you a pyromancer?”

You glare.

“Hey, no shame if you are. This is a judgment-free zone.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Besides, even ol’ Grillby looks like he can hardly resist the urge to pyro- _feel_ - _ya_.”

“Oh my God, _get out_. You are banned from my house for forever.”

“You don’t really mean that. You’d miss me way too much.”

“No way, _never_ ,” you answer just a little too quick to be convincing.

He raises an eye ridge.

“Okay, maybe just a little,” you amend. “But only because I’m so conditioned to your special brand of nonsense that my body would probably go into a state of shock if I went a single day without your shenanigans.”

“Oh wow, that sounds pretty serious. Guess that means I gotta keep bugging you. Ya know, for the sake of your good health.”

“Yes,” you roll your eyes. “I’m sure your intentions are purely magnanimous.”

“As sure as I am that _your_ intentions are _magma_ nimous.”

You heave an exasperated-sounding sigh, closing your eyes as you run your fingers through your hair. “I vol _cannot_ believe you just said that.”

You peek an eye open to see his reaction. Sans’ smile widens for a second at the pun before it fades off his face entirely.

“But seriously, Grillby’s a good guy with a big heart. If you ever do anything to hurt him, well…” The lights in his sockets fade away until you’re looking into two empty sockets. “You’re gonna’ have a bad time.”

You raise an eyebrow at the thinly-veiled threat. “Should I be disappointed you’re giving the _you-break-their-heart-I-break-your-neck_ speech to me and not Grillby?”

“Nah,” the lights of his eyes return. “I already gave it to him a day ago.”

“Good. I’d hate for him to feel left out.”

Sans is still watching you, expression eerily serious. This is probably the longest you’ve ever seen him without a smile. He’s still waiting for a serious answer.

You look Sans deep in his eye sockets, trying to keep your expression as honest and open as possible. “I’ll admit that this all started as a joke and I’m not ready to start making declarations of love or anything but I can honestly say I’ve never been this sickeningly _into_ a person the way I’m into Grillby.”

“That’s good.” Sans relaxes his stance, shoulders slouching and easy grin returning to his face. He closes his eyes as he stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “Maybe if you play your cards right he’ll be into you tonight.”

“OH MY GOD. SANS!”

At your exclamation, Grillby and Papyrus look up from the stove just long enough to make sure you’re neither dead nor dying before focusing back on the food.

“I’m glad we had this little chat. But just remember,” he trails off as he reaches for something sitting on your kitchen counter. You watch blankly as Sans grabs a plastic googly eye and sticks it to your arm. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he finishes with a wink.

Before you can flick the googly eye off your arm and attempt to stick it straight up his nasal cavity, Grillby and Papyrus finish preparing the pasta. The four of you end up eating spaghetti off of plastic dishes while standing around the counter instead of at the impressive romantic spread that Papyrus had set up for you.

While this isn’t how you imagined your date with Grillby to turn out, you’d be lying if you said you were disappointed.

You hum contentedly as you take the first bite and then immediately take another. It tastes good, not that you suspected anything less. It’s hardly the first time you’ve eaten Grillby’s cooking. Still, you don’t miss the way the flames of Grillby’s face burn just a tad brighter as he watches your reaction while taking careful bites of his own.

Papyrus devours his dish with much more gusto, complimenting the meal between each of his failed attempts at slurping noodles without the use of lips. Sans compliments the meal too—if you can actually consider, _“This ain’t bad, Grillbz. You’ll have to spa-ghet-me the recipe sometime,” _a genuine compliment—and though his plate has less and less food on it each time you look you never actually _see_ Sans eating.__

__For the most part, dinner is surprisingly uneventful. You manage to last the entire meal without embarrassing yourself with awkward small talk. It’s hard to put your foot in your mouth when your mouth is already full of delicious food._ _

__When the meal is finished, Papyrus stands and gathers all the empty, sauce-stained plates. “Why don’t you two lovebirds take some time to yourselves? Sans and I will take care of the dishes.”_ _

__“ _Dishes_ not what I signed up for.”_ _

__Papyrus ignores his brother in favor of leaning in close so he can press his mouth to your ear. “Pro-pyrus Dating Tip The Third!” He attempts to whisper, though every word echoes through the kitchen for all to hear. “All successful dates must end with a romantic smooch. Unless you and/or your date don’t have lips, in which case, a passionate kiss may be substituted with equally passionate smooching sound effects!”_ _

__Before you can protest, he ushers you and Grillby by the kitchen entryway; giving you some sense of privacy but still keeping you within eyesight so that he can chaperone._ _

__You and Grillby stand in front of each other awkwardly._ _

__“So,” you break the silence, scratching at your arm nervously._ _

__“So,” he repeats, folding his arms behind his back._ _

__You glance back to see Papyrus and Sans washing and drying the dishes respectively. Well, Papyrus is washing dishes. Sans is rubbing a dirty hand towel on the wet dishes, thus making them dirty again and forcing Papyrus to wash them all over again. Either way, they seem distracted._ _

__Satisfied the skeletons aren’t snooping, you turn your full attention back to Grillby. “I’m sorry about all this. I promised you a meal this evening and you were the one who ended up cooking for everyone else.”_ _

__“It’s fine,” he assures, voice warm and gentle like the crackling of a campfire. “I like cooking.”_ _

__“That may be the case, but you’re my guest.” You cross your arms over your chest in a fit of childish stubbornness. “I should have been the one to do all the cooking.”_ _

__“You can cook next time.”_ _

__“Next time?” You raise an eyebrow. “You mean, you actually want to do this with me again?”_ _

__He nods. “Do you?”_ _

__“Y-yeah.” You smile, ducking your head to hide the warmth of your cheeks. “Next time.”_ _

__“JUST KISS ALREADY!”_ _

__You whip your head back towards the kitchen, warm cheeks now flaming hot. “Papyrus, oh my _GOD_ , you can’t just tell people to kiss!”_ _

__“Yeah, bro,” Sans says as he tosses another dried, dirty dish back into the sink. “It might be too hot for us to handle.”_ _

__“Well, brother, if you can’t take the _heat_ then you should stay out of the kitchen! Nyeh heh heh!”_ _

__“Papyrus,” you blink. “Did you just…?”_ _

__Papyrus’ self-satisfied smirk is all the answer you need._ _

__“Bro.” Sans wipes an imaginary tear away from his socket. “Bro, I’m so proud of you right now.”_ _

__You cover the bottom half of your mouth with your hand to hide your smile. With a tilt of your head, you gesture for Grillby to follow and lead him out the kitchen and back to your home’s entryway for some privacy._ _

__“Thanks. For dropping by, and fixing dinner, and dealing with me and my weird friends and all of our eccentricities.” You grab Grillby’s pea coat off the hook, holding it out to him. “I hope your coat was worth all this hassle—”_ _

__You’re interrupted by a chaste kiss to your forehead that instantly freezes you in place._ _

__Grillby pulls back, flames flickering as he stares at your burning cheeks and slack jawed expression. Something about your dumb expression must be endearing to him because he places a hand atop your head to ruffle your hair gently._ _

__“You keep it.”_ _

__You just nod your head as if in a trance, unable to properly form words. One hand clutches your mouth; the other holds Grillby’s jacket tight to your chest._ _

__When he removes his hand from your scalp, you immediately miss the warmth. Still, you stare dumbly as Grillby gives you one last glance over his shoulder before letting himself out._ _

__The spell doesn’t wear off until ten seconds after the door has shut behind him._ _

__Despite not hearing or seeing him leave the kitchen, Sans rocks back and forth on his feet at the spot immediately to your right, smug grin fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything; just stares at you with that infuriating smile of his._ _

__With a deep sigh, you take the bait. “What?”_ _

__“You’re in _lava_.”_ _

__And you bury your face in the jacket and groan because you can’t really argue with him._ _


End file.
